“Collin, would you use the ashtray, please! Not on Annie Kate’s oriental rugs!”
“I’m sorry, Siobhan, I forgot. It’s not as if it won’t clean up.”
Annie Kate Limerick would pop a blood vessel if she knew Collin had flicked his cigar’s ashes onto her priceless red rug. Not only did her mother-in-law detest Siobhan’s brother, she’d bought that rug at an exposition in New York back in ’93 and spent a small fortune shipping it to Philadelphia. Annie Kate loved it better than any possession she’d left behind when giving the house to Siobhan and Martin twenty years ago.
Collin was her favorite brother, the monsignor of St. Patrick’s, and now that Martin had been dead a dozen years, the sole father figure for Patrick and Agnes. But oh, what a mess he made whenever he came to visit! If it wasn’t cigar ashes on the floors, it was soggy food on her dining table and red wine stains on the chairs. Thank goodness Collin didn’t take snuff, otherwise he’d just spit it out on the floor wherever he liked. All that interested him these days, she supposed, was good clean fun. But it wasn’t good or clean to her.
She looked up the stairs, wondering if Annie Kate had overheard her complaint toward Collin. All she heard was rowdy snoring from Agnes’s bedroom. She’d probably taken a nap after chatting with Agnes. Why did grandmother and granddaughter always run off together?
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Brian Larney: I never get tired of it
All the possibilities of the world, sitting there on eighty-eight white and black keys. One person evoking all the sounds of a full-scale symphonic orchestra, the bassoons in the bass clef with staccato, the clarinets in the treble with their sing-song voices, the flutes in the upper registers with their trills and tremolos, and the cellos in the bass seducing listeners with a pensive legato. With only ten fingers I can do all of this, all at the same time, without a single jolt of electricity or help from anyone else.
When I drag myself out of bed at ten in the morning, I go straight to the studio for thirty minutes of scales and arpeggios. I’ll have a stiff cup of black coffee and look in the mirror at the bleary-eyed middle-aged Irishman, groan, and head for a shower. I’ll answer the door at 11:30 in the morning for my first student, little Johnny Callahan from 12th and Pine. A steady stream of children will enter and then exit thirty minutes later. Tommy Conaghy at 1:30, he’s practicing the Minute Waltz. Katie O’Mara at 3:00, she’s working on Beethoven’s Sonata Facile. Agnes Limerick at 4:30, my final student of the day, she’s finishing up the Moonlight Sonata. After Agnes leaves, I’ll pour myself a glass of red wine to celebrate another day of students, one day in thirty-five years. Prohibition can’t take that away from me.
After dinner, I light candles in the music room and I sit at the instrument, admiring the eighty-eight white and black. These days, I’m preparing the “Appassionata” for a New York performance, the killer sonata, the only one I haven’t figured out yet. If I have to stay up until midnight, going over the demonic first movement and back over it, again and again, I will. I’ll do the same thing tomorrow, if I’m not satisfied, and the day after that, yet again, until it’s ready for an audience.
When I drag myself out of bed at ten in the morning, I go straight to the studio for thirty minutes of scales and arpeggios. I’ll have a stiff cup of black coffee and look in the mirror at the bleary-eyed middle-aged Irishman, groan, and head for a shower. I’ll answer the door at 11:30 in the morning for my first student, little Johnny Callahan from 12th and Pine. A steady stream of children will enter and then exit thirty minutes later. Tommy Conaghy at 1:30, he’s practicing the Minute Waltz. Katie O’Mara at 3:00, she’s working on Beethoven’s Sonata Facile. Agnes Limerick at 4:30, my final student of the day, she’s finishing up the Moonlight Sonata. After Agnes leaves, I’ll pour myself a glass of red wine to celebrate another day of students, one day in thirty-five years. Prohibition can’t take that away from me.
After dinner, I light candles in the music room and I sit at the instrument, admiring the eighty-eight white and black. These days, I’m preparing the “Appassionata” for a New York performance, the killer sonata, the only one I haven’t figured out yet. If I have to stay up until midnight, going over the demonic first movement and back over it, again and again, I will. I’ll do the same thing tomorrow, if I’m not satisfied, and the day after that, yet again, until it’s ready for an audience.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Agnes Limerick: Barefoot
“Let’s face it, Agnes, Mr. Smith isn’t exactly Noel Coward or Fred Astaire. When I caught him in the lunch room, kissing Mrs. Findlay, I practically fell out of my dress laughing. Then Mrs. Findlay made a maelstrom of a face and stormed out of the room, her mile-high hair bouncing on top of her head. Mr. Smith quivered, shaking in his oversized suit.”
Cristina laughed so hard, her breasts bounced up and down and her glasses fell down her nose. She had to right them before continuing. Agnes sensed rather than saw Norman’s jaw tighten and his lips press together like a vise. That’s what he did when he thought someone was being stupid – and she knew he thought Cristina was foolish.
Stupid, such a harsh word. Agnes shuddered at the condemnation she felt emanating from her right side. Cristina was so smart, too – really wise and insightful, though she couldn’t understand why she didn’t appreciate Norman. All she ever did was make fun of his angular mannerisms.
“Mr. Smith means well, Cristina,” Norman volleyed back in a cutting, staccato voice, “and he is a gentleman. The way you talk, he should be spitting snuff and walking barefoot behind a barn, carrying a spade. He’s always had good manners to me, at least.”
“Tell that to Mrs. Findlay, Norman,” and she laughed again, “or just take a look at the red imprint of her fingers on his sallow face.”
Cristina laughed so hard, her breasts bounced up and down and her glasses fell down her nose. She had to right them before continuing. Agnes sensed rather than saw Norman’s jaw tighten and his lips press together like a vise. That’s what he did when he thought someone was being stupid – and she knew he thought Cristina was foolish.
Stupid, such a harsh word. Agnes shuddered at the condemnation she felt emanating from her right side. Cristina was so smart, too – really wise and insightful, though she couldn’t understand why she didn’t appreciate Norman. All she ever did was make fun of his angular mannerisms.
“Mr. Smith means well, Cristina,” Norman volleyed back in a cutting, staccato voice, “and he is a gentleman. The way you talk, he should be spitting snuff and walking barefoot behind a barn, carrying a spade. He’s always had good manners to me, at least.”
“Tell that to Mrs. Findlay, Norman,” and she laughed again, “or just take a look at the red imprint of her fingers on his sallow face.”
Friday, May 27, 2011
Annie Kate Limerick: The first time we met
Annie Kate squirmed in her seat on the bench. The April skies threatened a cold rain on their heads, but they had no where else to go. Her granddaughter grew bored quickly with her stories of Ireland, but she had to give her this lesson.
“Picture this, Agnes – County Meath, 1867. The day I met your grandfather. I was 15 years old, he was 20. As handsome as Ireland’s hills are green. Smart as a tack. A sing-song tenor voice and beautiful singing voice. You thought you got your musical ability from your mother’s side? No, sweetheart, you got it from Grandpa Andrew.”
For once, Agnes paid attention. “I always wondered what he was like, Granny.”
“I’m the only grandparent you ever knew, so of course you might have some questions about him, lass. But I’m mentioning my husband for a reason. I knew the first time I met him that I wanted to marry him. Oh, I didn’t tell him that, then or for many years afterward. Would’ve puffed up his pride too much. But I knew.”
“How’d you know, Granny?”
“Lass, I knew it in so many ways. The way he held my hand, the way he laughed at my stories, the way he turned his head when someone made an odd remark, the way his hair blew in his eyes. But most of all, his eyes. They were the only eyes in the room that danced for me. Everyone else’s eyes were flat, but his were always alive and sparkling for me. I knew all this the first time we met. Just like you knew it about your husband, sweetheart.”
Agnes laughed. “Oh, dear, Granny.”
“What, pumpkin?”
“If first impressions mean something, then I’m in trouble. The first time I met Norman, I thought he was an arrogant jerk. It wasn’t until the second time that his eyes came alive.”
“All right, forget what I said.”
They both laughed. The gray clouds had parted and blue peeked out.
“Picture this, Agnes – County Meath, 1867. The day I met your grandfather. I was 15 years old, he was 20. As handsome as Ireland’s hills are green. Smart as a tack. A sing-song tenor voice and beautiful singing voice. You thought you got your musical ability from your mother’s side? No, sweetheart, you got it from Grandpa Andrew.”
For once, Agnes paid attention. “I always wondered what he was like, Granny.”
“I’m the only grandparent you ever knew, so of course you might have some questions about him, lass. But I’m mentioning my husband for a reason. I knew the first time I met him that I wanted to marry him. Oh, I didn’t tell him that, then or for many years afterward. Would’ve puffed up his pride too much. But I knew.”
“How’d you know, Granny?”
“Lass, I knew it in so many ways. The way he held my hand, the way he laughed at my stories, the way he turned his head when someone made an odd remark, the way his hair blew in his eyes. But most of all, his eyes. They were the only eyes in the room that danced for me. Everyone else’s eyes were flat, but his were always alive and sparkling for me. I knew all this the first time we met. Just like you knew it about your husband, sweetheart.”
Agnes laughed. “Oh, dear, Granny.”
“What, pumpkin?”
“If first impressions mean something, then I’m in trouble. The first time I met Norman, I thought he was an arrogant jerk. It wasn’t until the second time that his eyes came alive.”
“All right, forget what I said.”
They both laughed. The gray clouds had parted and blue peeked out.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Collin Doherty: Gargoyles on a Parisian church
Collin walked the Rue des Lumieres late at night with the vampires and the indigents. He contemplated his pilgrimages to Lourdes, Westminster, now Paris. Tomorrow he’d take the long overnight train to la bella Roma, where he’d end his trip before taking the boat back to America.
There weren’t all that many young men walking about. Most of the people lurking behind trees and bushes, loitering in dark corners, betrayed only by the light of their cigarettes, most of them were as old as his father – that imperious old man who’d told him, just before sending him on his European tour, when he came home, he’d have to go into the seminary.
What did Father know of desire? Mother had died, just after Julia had been born, the eighth and final child of the Doherty family. That’d been ten years ago and since then, he’d ruled the eight of them with an iron fist. The look on Kathleen Conaghy’s face betrayed it all when he told her, he’d become a priest. Her face collapsed into a molten, gelid mass of distraught anxiety. Collin would never forget that expression, if he lived to be a hundred.
Walking by the Parisian church, he saw the young man standing against the gaslight across the street. Gargoyles growled from the church’s roof. He looked at the cross on top of the church and asked for forgiveness. And then he crossed the street to the young man. One time would certainly not hurt.
There weren’t all that many young men walking about. Most of the people lurking behind trees and bushes, loitering in dark corners, betrayed only by the light of their cigarettes, most of them were as old as his father – that imperious old man who’d told him, just before sending him on his European tour, when he came home, he’d have to go into the seminary.
What did Father know of desire? Mother had died, just after Julia had been born, the eighth and final child of the Doherty family. That’d been ten years ago and since then, he’d ruled the eight of them with an iron fist. The look on Kathleen Conaghy’s face betrayed it all when he told her, he’d become a priest. Her face collapsed into a molten, gelid mass of distraught anxiety. Collin would never forget that expression, if he lived to be a hundred.
Walking by the Parisian church, he saw the young man standing against the gaslight across the street. Gargoyles growled from the church’s roof. He looked at the cross on top of the church and asked for forgiveness. And then he crossed the street to the young man. One time would certainly not hurt.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Norman Balmoral: Reality TV
Their fight by the side of the road was a rude dose of reality after their idyllic honeymoon.
Norman approached Agnes and spoke to her in velvet smoothness. “Darling, you’re making too much of this. It was only an small farm cat.”
“It was a living, breathing animal. Can you really be that cruel?”
His wife was irrational at times. “Agnes, that’s not fair. It’s unfortunate, but –“
She interrupted him, voice rising and fluttering. “But what?”
“It’s probably a family pet they’ll forget about just as soon as they get another one.”
“How dare you!” she snapped back. “You murderer! You killed this poor cat, all because you had to be right about Twenty Questions. I’m sorry, baby kitty, please forgive us!”
This was too much. All because he ran over the cat with the car? “For heaven’s sake, Agnes. It was only an accident. Put the animal down and let’s be on our way.”
She sobbed even more. “I miss my dog. I want my Racer back! My favorite dog died and then you took me away from my family. Sometimes I hate you, Norman Balmoral.”
Would this never end? “Agnes, you’re beside yourself. Calm down, or –”
“Be quiet!” she ordered. “I’m having another contraction.”
Norman approached Agnes and spoke to her in velvet smoothness. “Darling, you’re making too much of this. It was only an small farm cat.”
“It was a living, breathing animal. Can you really be that cruel?”
His wife was irrational at times. “Agnes, that’s not fair. It’s unfortunate, but –“
She interrupted him, voice rising and fluttering. “But what?”
“It’s probably a family pet they’ll forget about just as soon as they get another one.”
“How dare you!” she snapped back. “You murderer! You killed this poor cat, all because you had to be right about Twenty Questions. I’m sorry, baby kitty, please forgive us!”
This was too much. All because he ran over the cat with the car? “For heaven’s sake, Agnes. It was only an accident. Put the animal down and let’s be on our way.”
She sobbed even more. “I miss my dog. I want my Racer back! My favorite dog died and then you took me away from my family. Sometimes I hate you, Norman Balmoral.”
Would this never end? “Agnes, you’re beside yourself. Calm down, or –”
“Be quiet!” she ordered. “I’m having another contraction.”
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Cristina Rosamilia: Speeding
Do you think Agnes recognizes how difficult this is for me? Does Norman know how uncomfortable I am, having them here in the house for dinner with Angelo? Thank heavens Ma’s preparing the meal. There she is, racing about the kitchen like a raceway speeder. I don’t know what I’d do without her, sautéing fish, which we have five days every week. She’s also prepared a scrumptious antipasto of salami, mushrooms, mozzarella, and roasted peppers. That’s keeping Norman and Agnes busy while they drink wine – red for Norman, white for Agnes.
Should Agnes really be drinking wine when she’s pregnant? I don’t know, but Agnes is a smart girl. She’ll do what was right for her baby. I suppose it must be very hard, getting used to living with Norman Balmoral. When I dated him, he made life very difficult. His bad manners! The way he whistled for waiters when they went to restaurants, the way he clucked his tongue against his teeth when things annoyed him, the way he tapped his feet on the floor when people were taking too long for him!
I wonder, has Norman said anything to Agnes about them? Does Agnes know anything about our old relationship? It seemed like ages ago, two years it’d been, and even then we’d only dated for six weeks. I’ve never even told Angelo about it, because he’d go crazy with jealousy and start a fight with Norman. Tight-lipped Norman, as fit as a circus acrobat, up against my beefy husband. I know who’d win that one. So Angelo can never find out that Norman was my first lover -- an athletic pistol of muscles, hair, and passion.
Agnes burped. “Mercy, Cristina, I’m so rude!”
Everyone except Norman laughed. Trouble ahead for Agnes, I think. Norman’s a relentless perfectionist. Burping would simply not be permitted.
Should Agnes really be drinking wine when she’s pregnant? I don’t know, but Agnes is a smart girl. She’ll do what was right for her baby. I suppose it must be very hard, getting used to living with Norman Balmoral. When I dated him, he made life very difficult. His bad manners! The way he whistled for waiters when they went to restaurants, the way he clucked his tongue against his teeth when things annoyed him, the way he tapped his feet on the floor when people were taking too long for him!
I wonder, has Norman said anything to Agnes about them? Does Agnes know anything about our old relationship? It seemed like ages ago, two years it’d been, and even then we’d only dated for six weeks. I’ve never even told Angelo about it, because he’d go crazy with jealousy and start a fight with Norman. Tight-lipped Norman, as fit as a circus acrobat, up against my beefy husband. I know who’d win that one. So Angelo can never find out that Norman was my first lover -- an athletic pistol of muscles, hair, and passion.
Agnes burped. “Mercy, Cristina, I’m so rude!”
Everyone except Norman laughed. Trouble ahead for Agnes, I think. Norman’s a relentless perfectionist. Burping would simply not be permitted.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Georgianna Balmoral: You dropped it
Icicles tingling against a cold slab of ice, tin glimmering on the surface of aluminum sheeting, organ pipes collapsing in a pile of glass shards, and the collapse of the crystal palace long after the Great Exhibition ended in 1851.
These sounds compared as nothing against the cacophony that reverberated through the small apartment above Balmoral’s General Store. Georgianna stood at the kitchen sink, solid as petrified wood, her face locked in a stare on the salmon-colored wall in front of her. She could not bear to turn around.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Mother Balmoral!”
She’d come to like her new daughter-in-law, but at that moment, Agnes’s melodic soprano voice eviscerated Georgianna of any hope that the worst had not happened. She turned around in discrete, clock-wise motions that had her despairing of what she’d find when her body reached six o’clock.
Agnes stood by the cluster of shelves on the wall near the hallway’s entrance, holding a laundry basket filled with Norman’s sweaty undershorts and shirts. Those three shelves stood completely bare, but the floor by Agnes’s feet resembled the demolition of a pre-Civil War building making way for a modern skyscraper.
Georgianna cried out. Her Royal Doulton figurines, every one of them smashed onto the floor. The only valuable possessions she’d been allowed to take in the foreclosure.
She thought of everything at that moment. Her son getting a divorce; the benefits of corporal punishment; slapping Agnes until she turned blue; punching her in the stomach and bringing her pregnancy to an abrupt end; and murder. All these thoughts went through Georgianna’s head at that precise moment.
And then the horizontal line of composure, trained to her by her mother, rose in front of her, over her head, and behind her. Think what the queen would say, her mother would always counsel.
“Agnes, my dear, these are only minor trinkets. You needn’t concern yourself over them. And please, dear, call me Georgianna.”
These sounds compared as nothing against the cacophony that reverberated through the small apartment above Balmoral’s General Store. Georgianna stood at the kitchen sink, solid as petrified wood, her face locked in a stare on the salmon-colored wall in front of her. She could not bear to turn around.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Mother Balmoral!”
She’d come to like her new daughter-in-law, but at that moment, Agnes’s melodic soprano voice eviscerated Georgianna of any hope that the worst had not happened. She turned around in discrete, clock-wise motions that had her despairing of what she’d find when her body reached six o’clock.
Agnes stood by the cluster of shelves on the wall near the hallway’s entrance, holding a laundry basket filled with Norman’s sweaty undershorts and shirts. Those three shelves stood completely bare, but the floor by Agnes’s feet resembled the demolition of a pre-Civil War building making way for a modern skyscraper.
Georgianna cried out. Her Royal Doulton figurines, every one of them smashed onto the floor. The only valuable possessions she’d been allowed to take in the foreclosure.
She thought of everything at that moment. Her son getting a divorce; the benefits of corporal punishment; slapping Agnes until she turned blue; punching her in the stomach and bringing her pregnancy to an abrupt end; and murder. All these thoughts went through Georgianna’s head at that precise moment.
And then the horizontal line of composure, trained to her by her mother, rose in front of her, over her head, and behind her. Think what the queen would say, her mother would always counsel.
“Agnes, my dear, these are only minor trinkets. You needn’t concern yourself over them. And please, dear, call me Georgianna.”
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Gracie Honeywalker: Fifteen years
I done lived on this place now fifteen years, all by myself. Youngest boy, he done gone off to Albany, working for the state. Don’t have no idea what for. He told me but I can’t remember. Doesn’t matter none, cause he’s happy and married to a real nice girl I like a lot. Done give me four granddaughters already. The other ten – all scattered all over New York, various places I ain’t never been and ain’t never gone to go.
I see the car pull away finally. Mr. Norman and Miz Agnes, they leaving for Philadelphia today. God be with them and their baby Grace. I sure done loved having them here with me, made for real good company. That Mr. Norman, he’s okay even if he’s too bossy and has to get his way on everything. He’s got a good heart Jesus would love. He better be real good to Miz Agnes and little Grace, cause they deserve it. Jesus’s blessing, I say, for me to help Miz Agnes bring that blue-eyed princess into the world. I’m gone to miss them.
Old Man Lacey, he’ll be down later today I’m sure. He always knows what goes on, even if I don’t tell him. I done always counted on him, ever since the baby done left. Fifteen years now. He come by, least once a week, make sure I’m okay. Give me real good company. First I couldn’t understand, he being a white man and all, why he’d pay any attention to an old black fool like me.
All started real well, right and friendly, helping me around the house when no one around. Then he’d come over for dinner and I’d make him a chicken, didn’t matter nothing to him what it was. It got real nice when he’d stay overnight. I loved it like nothing – even Old Man Honeywalker, when he done married me, he didn’t make me feel that good. Old Man Lacey, we keep at it for five years or so, and then I say, Lacey, it’s my time to say no. Now you know I love you, but it’s time you go home after dinner stead of spending the night.
That done took him back, but he still come for dinner and he still help me around the house. Fifteen years now, alone in this here house. I don’t feel lonely one bit.
I see the car pull away finally. Mr. Norman and Miz Agnes, they leaving for Philadelphia today. God be with them and their baby Grace. I sure done loved having them here with me, made for real good company. That Mr. Norman, he’s okay even if he’s too bossy and has to get his way on everything. He’s got a good heart Jesus would love. He better be real good to Miz Agnes and little Grace, cause they deserve it. Jesus’s blessing, I say, for me to help Miz Agnes bring that blue-eyed princess into the world. I’m gone to miss them.
Old Man Lacey, he’ll be down later today I’m sure. He always knows what goes on, even if I don’t tell him. I done always counted on him, ever since the baby done left. Fifteen years now. He come by, least once a week, make sure I’m okay. Give me real good company. First I couldn’t understand, he being a white man and all, why he’d pay any attention to an old black fool like me.
All started real well, right and friendly, helping me around the house when no one around. Then he’d come over for dinner and I’d make him a chicken, didn’t matter nothing to him what it was. It got real nice when he’d stay overnight. I loved it like nothing – even Old Man Honeywalker, when he done married me, he didn’t make me feel that good. Old Man Lacey, we keep at it for five years or so, and then I say, Lacey, it’s my time to say no. Now you know I love you, but it’s time you go home after dinner stead of spending the night.
That done took him back, but he still come for dinner and he still help me around the house. Fifteen years now, alone in this here house. I don’t feel lonely one bit.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Cristina Rosamilia: Pillow talk
“I was wondering, Norman, what do you think we’ll look like in forty years?”
“What do you mean, Cristina?”
She thought for a moment. “I mean, will I be gray-haired and wrinkly, like my mother? Will you be bald and have a paunch?”
“I don’t see very well how I could have a paunch. I exercise daily and I eat lots of fruits and vegetables.”
“Yeah, you’ve always been an odd duck. I go back to my original question. Will your schlong be as pretty when you’re seventy as it is right now?”
“Cristina, please. There are people on the other side of the wall.”
“That didn’t stop you twenty minutes ago from moaning out my name at the top of your lungs.”
“That was different. That wasn’t conversation. That was sex.”
“Yeah, the neighbors in the next room will hear one if they hear the other. So what will we look like?”
“I don’t know. But you’ll still be married to Angelo and I’ll still be married to Agnes. So what ‘we’ will look like is an academic question. They’ll be in any picture we’re in.”
Cristina shrank back onto her pillow and lifted the sheets up. Suddenly she felt entirely exposed to this man, her best friend’s husband.
“What do you mean, Cristina?”
She thought for a moment. “I mean, will I be gray-haired and wrinkly, like my mother? Will you be bald and have a paunch?”
“I don’t see very well how I could have a paunch. I exercise daily and I eat lots of fruits and vegetables.”
“Yeah, you’ve always been an odd duck. I go back to my original question. Will your schlong be as pretty when you’re seventy as it is right now?”
“Cristina, please. There are people on the other side of the wall.”
“That didn’t stop you twenty minutes ago from moaning out my name at the top of your lungs.”
“That was different. That wasn’t conversation. That was sex.”
“Yeah, the neighbors in the next room will hear one if they hear the other. So what will we look like?”
“I don’t know. But you’ll still be married to Angelo and I’ll still be married to Agnes. So what ‘we’ will look like is an academic question. They’ll be in any picture we’re in.”
Cristina shrank back onto her pillow and lifted the sheets up. Suddenly she felt entirely exposed to this man, her best friend’s husband.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Norman Balmoral: I won't give it up
Why doesn’t Agnes get up earlier in the morning?
Take this past Saturday. After a busy week designing blueprint after blueprint I popped out of bed at 6 in the morning. I opened the drapes, pulled up the window, and peered onto the streets of West Philadelphia. What a beautiful spring day, crystal clear and cool like a summer lake in the northern mountains! It had me bursting at the seems to start my day. So I looked over at Agnes, shaped like a pretzel under the covers, her head buried in the pillows, and shrugged. If she wanted to miss this day …
So I donned my running gear and dashed out of the house. I headed down to Penn Field and did four miles around the track. How invigorating! I ran back to the apartment, but stopped in the pharmacy first – some books needed balancing before the store opened at 9. I organized the store’s counters before heading up the stairs to the apartment.
Mother was preparing bacon and eggs for breakfast, but I passed in favor of some yogurt and fresh fruit. Dad just shook his head. I looked at the closed bedroom door. “Is Agnes awake yet?”
“No, dear, she’s been still as a mouse.”
The clock said 8:30. How could Agnes sleep this late on a Saturday morning?
I opened the bedroom door and blurted, “Rise and shine, dear! Time for breakfast.”
She gurgled and moaned some sort of response, I couldn’t tell what, and turned over to the other side. No waking her up, I guess. So I closed the door, freshened myself up in the wash basin, and changed my clothes for the day’s business at the store. If she weren’t six months pregnant, I’d make a fuss and insist she wake up in time for Mother’s breakfast. After the baby’s born, I suppose, I’ll make sure she’s up bright and early. There’s work to be done.
Take this past Saturday. After a busy week designing blueprint after blueprint I popped out of bed at 6 in the morning. I opened the drapes, pulled up the window, and peered onto the streets of West Philadelphia. What a beautiful spring day, crystal clear and cool like a summer lake in the northern mountains! It had me bursting at the seems to start my day. So I looked over at Agnes, shaped like a pretzel under the covers, her head buried in the pillows, and shrugged. If she wanted to miss this day …
So I donned my running gear and dashed out of the house. I headed down to Penn Field and did four miles around the track. How invigorating! I ran back to the apartment, but stopped in the pharmacy first – some books needed balancing before the store opened at 9. I organized the store’s counters before heading up the stairs to the apartment.
Mother was preparing bacon and eggs for breakfast, but I passed in favor of some yogurt and fresh fruit. Dad just shook his head. I looked at the closed bedroom door. “Is Agnes awake yet?”
“No, dear, she’s been still as a mouse.”
The clock said 8:30. How could Agnes sleep this late on a Saturday morning?
I opened the bedroom door and blurted, “Rise and shine, dear! Time for breakfast.”
She gurgled and moaned some sort of response, I couldn’t tell what, and turned over to the other side. No waking her up, I guess. So I closed the door, freshened myself up in the wash basin, and changed my clothes for the day’s business at the store. If she weren’t six months pregnant, I’d make a fuss and insist she wake up in time for Mother’s breakfast. After the baby’s born, I suppose, I’ll make sure she’s up bright and early. There’s work to be done.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Brian Larney: Tropical plants, white lampshade
Brian walked about the tropical garden of the Phillips Conservatory, dodging a banana tree and stopping near a travelers’ palm. He loved coming here on his recent visits to Pittsburgh. Arthur Watson taught piano at Carnegie Tech, so during the school year, Brian had to travel on the Northwestern line across the state to see him.
“Sir, may I help you?” The guard looked at him with a question in his eyes and an exclamation mark on his eyebrows. People were always asking Brian if they could help him. Did he look perpetually lost? Did he just look out of place? He knew he dressed differently than others – bright colors most of the time, an oddity when men wore black suits, high starched-collared shirts and the women wore frilly white blouses up to their necks and long, black skirts.
“No, I’m simply admiring the plants and trees.” Brian knew the guard was suspicious of him. He didn’t blame him. He’d been wandering about Phillips Conservatory for two hours, waiting for Arthur to join him.
The affair had started well enough. Great sex, lots of laughs, lots of music together. Over time, though, after two years, the sex had gotten stale, they’d gotten bored with each other’s jokes, and hardly ever dueted together. Brian knew his time was coming to an end with Arthur. So why wait so long at the Phillips Conservatory for him?
“Sir, may I help you?” The guard looked at him with a question in his eyes and an exclamation mark on his eyebrows. People were always asking Brian if they could help him. Did he look perpetually lost? Did he just look out of place? He knew he dressed differently than others – bright colors most of the time, an oddity when men wore black suits, high starched-collared shirts and the women wore frilly white blouses up to their necks and long, black skirts.
“No, I’m simply admiring the plants and trees.” Brian knew the guard was suspicious of him. He didn’t blame him. He’d been wandering about Phillips Conservatory for two hours, waiting for Arthur to join him.
The affair had started well enough. Great sex, lots of laughs, lots of music together. Over time, though, after two years, the sex had gotten stale, they’d gotten bored with each other’s jokes, and hardly ever dueted together. Brian knew his time was coming to an end with Arthur. So why wait so long at the Phillips Conservatory for him?
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Annie Kate Limerick: Give us the dialogue
They didn’t know she understood it all. They thought because she couldn’t talk, she didn’t understand anything.
Siobhan clucked around like a bird. She fetched glasses of water that made her cough. She rubbed her feet and her temples. She fussed about the sheets, never smooth enough. She fluffed up her pillows. She had six daughters-in-law, why’d she ever go to live with her least favorite one? At least, though, Siobhan was here. All the others were in their own houses on the Main Line, dispatching orders to servants they never treated right. If they still had servants, money having dried up for all of them.
Annie Kate wanted Agnes. Where were she and Norman, somewhere in New York State? Norman’s mother had called Siobhan to tell her, a baby girl had been delivered while the two of them were en route back to Philadelphia. Some farm house in upstate New York. They were stuck there until Agnes recovered. It had been a difficult birth, Mrs. Balmoral had said. Also, Norman needed to get the car fixed. The engine had flooded in an overnight rainstorm.
Siobhan told her, she’d sent Agnes a telegram about Annie Kate’s stroke. She’ll be here soon, she assured her, she’ll be here soon. Annie Kate certainly hoped so – her time was running out.
Siobhan clucked around like a bird. She fetched glasses of water that made her cough. She rubbed her feet and her temples. She fussed about the sheets, never smooth enough. She fluffed up her pillows. She had six daughters-in-law, why’d she ever go to live with her least favorite one? At least, though, Siobhan was here. All the others were in their own houses on the Main Line, dispatching orders to servants they never treated right. If they still had servants, money having dried up for all of them.
Annie Kate wanted Agnes. Where were she and Norman, somewhere in New York State? Norman’s mother had called Siobhan to tell her, a baby girl had been delivered while the two of them were en route back to Philadelphia. Some farm house in upstate New York. They were stuck there until Agnes recovered. It had been a difficult birth, Mrs. Balmoral had said. Also, Norman needed to get the car fixed. The engine had flooded in an overnight rainstorm.
Siobhan told her, she’d sent Agnes a telegram about Annie Kate’s stroke. She’ll be here soon, she assured her, she’ll be here soon. Annie Kate certainly hoped so – her time was running out.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Siobhan Limerick: Family
She’d never heard the upstairs creak just like that. Wonder why, after twenty-six years, three childbirths, two funerals, and a wedding in absentia. Siobhan sat at her white kitchen table, staring at the navy blue-tiled wall and steel countertops. She hated this kitchen, even if this is where she’d spent most of the last quarter century.
She sipped a cup of coffee. Mornings had always been family time. When Martin lived, they’d had big breakfasts every day before he headed off to the hospital to tend patients. Those damned patients, he cared more about them than her. Or did he? She never knew. And then the epidemic of ’18 took him away and she was left to raise Agnes and Patrick. So Annie Kate moved in and started complaining about the way she sautéed vegetables and prepared jellies.
Why’d her mother-in-law have to move in? It’d been Annie Kate who’d turned Agnes into a rebellious young woman. No, girl – Agnes never grew up, Siobhan knew. How else could you explain the way she married that Balmoral man, moved away, and … Siobhan still couldn’t bring herself to think how her only grandchild came into this world. Where had she gone wrong?
She hated Annie Kate for letting Agnes get away, but she got her revenge soon enough -- the old lady had a stroke and lived to realize what a burden she’d become. But then she died. Good riddance, Siobhan thought. She nearly destroyed my family.
What would she do now? Only Patrick remained. He hadn’t worked now four years. When would the Depression end, she asked herself (like everyone else). But Patrick had gotten a job – the new Social Security Administration, he told her – and he was moving to Washington. Siobhan looked around the house. Martin gone, Agnes gone, Annie Kate gone, Patrick soon to be gone. What would it be? Go to Washington with Patrick, or stay here in this empty house?
They were mice creaking about the floors above her.
She sipped a cup of coffee. Mornings had always been family time. When Martin lived, they’d had big breakfasts every day before he headed off to the hospital to tend patients. Those damned patients, he cared more about them than her. Or did he? She never knew. And then the epidemic of ’18 took him away and she was left to raise Agnes and Patrick. So Annie Kate moved in and started complaining about the way she sautéed vegetables and prepared jellies.
Why’d her mother-in-law have to move in? It’d been Annie Kate who’d turned Agnes into a rebellious young woman. No, girl – Agnes never grew up, Siobhan knew. How else could you explain the way she married that Balmoral man, moved away, and … Siobhan still couldn’t bring herself to think how her only grandchild came into this world. Where had she gone wrong?
She hated Annie Kate for letting Agnes get away, but she got her revenge soon enough -- the old lady had a stroke and lived to realize what a burden she’d become. But then she died. Good riddance, Siobhan thought. She nearly destroyed my family.
What would she do now? Only Patrick remained. He hadn’t worked now four years. When would the Depression end, she asked herself (like everyone else). But Patrick had gotten a job – the new Social Security Administration, he told her – and he was moving to Washington. Siobhan looked around the house. Martin gone, Agnes gone, Annie Kate gone, Patrick soon to be gone. What would it be? Go to Washington with Patrick, or stay here in this empty house?
They were mice creaking about the floors above her.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Cristina Rosamilia: The hotel
Cristina tapped her foot and smoked Pall Mall after Pall Mall, sitting there in the lobby of the Versailles. At 47th and Pine Streets. Would anyone notice her? It certainly was off the beaten track – for Agnes and Angelo. Must also be for Norman, she thought, since he was twenty minutes late.
Norman was never late. He was always punctual as Pete, even in the months following Pearl Harbor. No one could ever fault Norman for laziness or carelessness. You could always depend on him, good or bad. But today, after he called her that morning to ask if they’d meet in the lobby of the Versailles where they’d met just twice before, three years earlier, today he missed their appointed hour by twenty minutes. No, she thought while checking her watch, twenty-five minutes late now.
The hotel’s door opened and the eastern sun behind it shone into the lobby. Though the figure at the door stood in shadow, she recognized Norman’s shape – compact height, narrow waist, broad shoulders, close-cropped hair, sharp and wide jawline. How handsome even now, more than ten years since they’d met, more than eight years since she’d married Angelo and he’d married Agnes.
“I apologize for being late, Cristina. It was unforgivable of me.”
“What kept you, Norman? I’ve been a nervous wreck since you called this morning. What can ever be the situation?”
Something in his face told her it was not good news. She put aside her own worries and penetrated his glance. His face told her, I’ve come to say goodbye. Forever.
“I’m joining the U.S. navy and will be shipped to England in a few months. Let’s get a table in the restaurant and talk about it.”
Norman was never late. He was always punctual as Pete, even in the months following Pearl Harbor. No one could ever fault Norman for laziness or carelessness. You could always depend on him, good or bad. But today, after he called her that morning to ask if they’d meet in the lobby of the Versailles where they’d met just twice before, three years earlier, today he missed their appointed hour by twenty minutes. No, she thought while checking her watch, twenty-five minutes late now.
The hotel’s door opened and the eastern sun behind it shone into the lobby. Though the figure at the door stood in shadow, she recognized Norman’s shape – compact height, narrow waist, broad shoulders, close-cropped hair, sharp and wide jawline. How handsome even now, more than ten years since they’d met, more than eight years since she’d married Angelo and he’d married Agnes.
“I apologize for being late, Cristina. It was unforgivable of me.”
“What kept you, Norman? I’ve been a nervous wreck since you called this morning. What can ever be the situation?”
Something in his face told her it was not good news. She put aside her own worries and penetrated his glance. His face told her, I’ve come to say goodbye. Forever.
“I’m joining the U.S. navy and will be shipped to England in a few months. Let’s get a table in the restaurant and talk about it.”
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Collin Doherty: It hurts less now
When Johnny Gallagher punched me in the face, I cried and ran home to my mother. When I dropped the baseball, St. Monica’s lost the tournament, and the other boys taunted me with jabs and wedgies, I said nothing. One day, the principal told me I wasn’t smart enough to go to college, so I swallowed and thanked God for the blessings I had. And when Father said I must go into the priesthood and serve God, even though I knew meteorology was my calling and Kathleen Conaghy wanted to marry me, I complained to no one.
But when my only niece left the family one day, when she married an Anglican, and six months later a healthy little girl was born, I drew the line. None of us ever spoke to Agnes again – until her husband died. By then, it hurt less.
But when my only niece left the family one day, when she married an Anglican, and six months later a healthy little girl was born, I drew the line. None of us ever spoke to Agnes again – until her husband died. By then, it hurt less.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Annie Kate Limerick: This summer
“The back door, Andrew, the back door!”
As soon as Annie Kate said this, it slammed shut. Why didn’t anyone in her household ever learn, if the front door was open, they couldn’t leave the back door open at the same time? A far too strong wind swept through Old City Philadelphia springtimes and created a vacuum effect in the house if they kept doors and windows open on both ends.
Alas, the perils of having money, how little she knew of it! She’d barely eaten enough food in their Trim hovel. They might’ve had a view of Tara Hill and the River Boyne from their sloping terrace, but they went to sleep hungry every night. Cabbage and beets stewed in brown vinegar didn’t do much for satisfying hungry appetites. It just put everone in a bad mood and made their eye sockets pop out.
She put memories of Ireland behind her – until the next time she remembered. Annie Kate looked at the kitchen’s back door. No children injured and no dogs killed as it slammed. Thank the Lord. She might have nine children between the ages of one and sixteen, but that didn’t mean each one wasn’t as precious as an only child. Now if they could just get used to all this wind in the city …
As soon as Annie Kate said this, it slammed shut. Why didn’t anyone in her household ever learn, if the front door was open, they couldn’t leave the back door open at the same time? A far too strong wind swept through Old City Philadelphia springtimes and created a vacuum effect in the house if they kept doors and windows open on both ends.
Alas, the perils of having money, how little she knew of it! She’d barely eaten enough food in their Trim hovel. They might’ve had a view of Tara Hill and the River Boyne from their sloping terrace, but they went to sleep hungry every night. Cabbage and beets stewed in brown vinegar didn’t do much for satisfying hungry appetites. It just put everone in a bad mood and made their eye sockets pop out.
She put memories of Ireland behind her – until the next time she remembered. Annie Kate looked at the kitchen’s back door. No children injured and no dogs killed as it slammed. Thank the Lord. She might have nine children between the ages of one and sixteen, but that didn’t mean each one wasn’t as precious as an only child. Now if they could just get used to all this wind in the city …
Friday, May 13, 2011
Siobhan Limerick: Smoking
“Collin, would you use the ashtray, please! Not on Annie Kate’s oriental rugs!”
“I’m sorry, Siobhan, I forgot. It’s not as if it won’t clean up.”
Annie Kate Limerick would pop a blood vessel if she knew Collin had flicked his cigar’s ashes onto her priceless red rug. Not only did her mother-in-law detest Siobhan’s brother, she’d bought that rug at an exposition in New York back in ’93 and spent a small fortune shipping it to Philadelphia. Annie Kate loved it better than any possession she’d left behind when giving the house to Siobhan and Martin twenty years ago.
Collin was her favorite brother, the monsignor of St. Patrick’s, and now that Martin had been dead a dozen years, the sole father figure for Patrick and Agnes. But oh, what a mess he made whenever he came to visit! If it wasn’t cigar ashes on the floors, it was soggy food on her dining table and red wine stains on the chairs. Thank goodness Collin didn’t take snuff, otherwise he’d just spit it out on the floor wherever he liked.
She looked up the stairs, wondering if Annie Kate had overheard her complaint toward Collin. All she heard was rowdy snoring from Agnes’s bedroom. She’d probably taken a nap after chatting with Agnes. Why did grandmother and granddaughter always run off together?
“I’m sorry, Siobhan, I forgot. It’s not as if it won’t clean up.”
Annie Kate Limerick would pop a blood vessel if she knew Collin had flicked his cigar’s ashes onto her priceless red rug. Not only did her mother-in-law detest Siobhan’s brother, she’d bought that rug at an exposition in New York back in ’93 and spent a small fortune shipping it to Philadelphia. Annie Kate loved it better than any possession she’d left behind when giving the house to Siobhan and Martin twenty years ago.
Collin was her favorite brother, the monsignor of St. Patrick’s, and now that Martin had been dead a dozen years, the sole father figure for Patrick and Agnes. But oh, what a mess he made whenever he came to visit! If it wasn’t cigar ashes on the floors, it was soggy food on her dining table and red wine stains on the chairs. Thank goodness Collin didn’t take snuff, otherwise he’d just spit it out on the floor wherever he liked.
She looked up the stairs, wondering if Annie Kate had overheard her complaint toward Collin. All she heard was rowdy snoring from Agnes’s bedroom. She’d probably taken a nap after chatting with Agnes. Why did grandmother and granddaughter always run off together?
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Norman Balmoral: In as little as thirty seconds
Without letting go of her left hand, he turned his lips to kiss her right fingers, a wet and needy kiss. He felt the smooth, spongy texture of her tongue. It electrified him.
He mustn’t go any further. Norman knew from the women of Italy – from Cristina, too – once he passed a certain point, kissing a woman as intriguing as Agnes Limerick, he’d be unable to stop. But a kiss with this girl! Unlike any other he’d ever experienced with a woman, divine providence intervened to bring them together. Passion stirred in his pants. It felt good, rubbing back and forth against his shorts, a hard rock poking out from his boxers, feeling the smooth cotton of his chinos. His shaft grew to full arousal.
He began to thrust his body toward hers. For the first time, he knew she wanted him, too. Her eyes, her mouth, her tongue told him, I want this, here and now. This is your purpose for me, the one thing you can give me that matters. He felt the friction of his erection, a protrusion that now stood straight up between his legs, demanding release. He could not be tamed now.
He buried his lips into hers, his tongue deep inside, a savage ferocity overtaking him. He broke free and breathed hard. He read in her eyes. Take me with you now, Norman.
Norman freed himself andlocked the front door. The bobbing pleasure between his legs – toying with the cotton of his shorts and slacks – excited him like a sadistic lion tamer. He came back and grabbed her by the waist, pulled her into the back office. Once inside, they stripped in nothing flat. He looked at himself, standing straight up. Thirty seconds, tops, that’s all it would take.
He mustn’t go any further. Norman knew from the women of Italy – from Cristina, too – once he passed a certain point, kissing a woman as intriguing as Agnes Limerick, he’d be unable to stop. But a kiss with this girl! Unlike any other he’d ever experienced with a woman, divine providence intervened to bring them together. Passion stirred in his pants. It felt good, rubbing back and forth against his shorts, a hard rock poking out from his boxers, feeling the smooth cotton of his chinos. His shaft grew to full arousal.
He began to thrust his body toward hers. For the first time, he knew she wanted him, too. Her eyes, her mouth, her tongue told him, I want this, here and now. This is your purpose for me, the one thing you can give me that matters. He felt the friction of his erection, a protrusion that now stood straight up between his legs, demanding release. He could not be tamed now.
He buried his lips into hers, his tongue deep inside, a savage ferocity overtaking him. He broke free and breathed hard. He read in her eyes. Take me with you now, Norman.
Norman freed himself andlocked the front door. The bobbing pleasure between his legs – toying with the cotton of his shorts and slacks – excited him like a sadistic lion tamer. He came back and grabbed her by the waist, pulled her into the back office. Once inside, they stripped in nothing flat. He looked at himself, standing straight up. Thirty seconds, tops, that’s all it would take.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Georgianna Balmoral: Replace them
Her beloved Royal Doultons. Gone and crashed to the floor. How long had she been collecting those blue-green, white, yellow-red figurines of Victorian women in petticoats and parisoles? Did that go back to her mother, the Anna Tasker she’d never known? Had she collected them and Father gave them to her when she married Cornelius? Yes, that’s right – Father had packed them himself in her trunk when she left the house on Park Avenue and come to Philadelphia.
Agnes gasped. “I’m sorry, Georgianna, I’m so sorry!”
A mask came over Georgianna’s face. Everyone was having a hard time adjusting to her new daughter-in-law. Cornelius wet himself one morning, unable to get to the bathroom in time because Agnes was bathing so long. Norman had a hard time, waiting for three or four hours every morning until she finally woke up at nine in the morning. And now Georgianna had her turn: her precious Royal Doultons, gone and crashed to the floor.
“It’s quite all right, my dear. Don’t give it a second’s thought.”
A second’s thought. As if those figurines should occupy more than a second of time in anyone’s head. True, they had each other. She still had her husband and her two sons. Three grandsons from Neil already, and a grandchild on the way from Norman and Agnes. But what of their home? They no longer had that, just this cramped apartment for four adults (and a baby on the way) on top of their general store, their beautiful home across the street, empty – and wearing a “bank foreclosure sale” sign on the front.
Agnes gasped. “I’m sorry, Georgianna, I’m so sorry!”
A mask came over Georgianna’s face. Everyone was having a hard time adjusting to her new daughter-in-law. Cornelius wet himself one morning, unable to get to the bathroom in time because Agnes was bathing so long. Norman had a hard time, waiting for three or four hours every morning until she finally woke up at nine in the morning. And now Georgianna had her turn: her precious Royal Doultons, gone and crashed to the floor.
“It’s quite all right, my dear. Don’t give it a second’s thought.”
A second’s thought. As if those figurines should occupy more than a second of time in anyone’s head. True, they had each other. She still had her husband and her two sons. Three grandsons from Neil already, and a grandchild on the way from Norman and Agnes. But what of their home? They no longer had that, just this cramped apartment for four adults (and a baby on the way) on top of their general store, their beautiful home across the street, empty – and wearing a “bank foreclosure sale” sign on the front.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Cristina Rosamilia: I forgot
I forgot the Irish were stuck-up boring fanatics. Now, however, I believe they're just fanatics. True, Agnes has told me just about everything she thinks and she makes fun of me and Angelo, how we carry on when my folks aren't looking. And she really enjoys a good picture show with me, especially Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton. What a riot to go to the movies with her! Why, Angelo never wants to go. All he wants to do is stay at home, play music on the victrola, dance with me, and then spend a steamy afternoon in the bedroom. How can I now we're living at home, my parents just across the hallway?
That's why I like Agnes so much. But that family of hers, they're a bit stiff on the Catholic stuff. Why, the evening her mother and uncle came over for dinner, you'd have thought it was a funeral. Not even an Irish wake in that family. I wish they'd lighten up, but at least I've got to say, old Mrs. Limerick's a pile of fun. How does she ever live with Agnes's mother, all those grays and lilacs. She's only 50 but she's got more wrinkles than Mrs. Harding had or even old Mrs. Taft. But Agnes has some life in her, like when we danced on Locust Street to Camptown races. Lord, she's 21 years old and still happy as a ten year old at the beginning of summer.
Me, I can't be bothered with all that depressing religion stuff. I go to mass just like any good Italian girl, but it's mostly for Ma and Pop's sake. I don't do it for me, and I know Angelo doesn't care a whit about it. But Agnes ... she's got some pretty strong opinions about religion, but looks to me, every time she talks about St. Patrick's Church where her uncle's the priest, you'd think God lived in the house himself. Seems to me, the way she recalls going to the St. Patrick's school, you'd think she'd been a juvenile delinquent, being called into her uncle's office at the drop of a hat. Hopefully now she's an adult, she can make her own decisions. Just not the Balmoral man.
That's why I like Agnes so much. But that family of hers, they're a bit stiff on the Catholic stuff. Why, the evening her mother and uncle came over for dinner, you'd have thought it was a funeral. Not even an Irish wake in that family. I wish they'd lighten up, but at least I've got to say, old Mrs. Limerick's a pile of fun. How does she ever live with Agnes's mother, all those grays and lilacs. She's only 50 but she's got more wrinkles than Mrs. Harding had or even old Mrs. Taft. But Agnes has some life in her, like when we danced on Locust Street to Camptown races. Lord, she's 21 years old and still happy as a ten year old at the beginning of summer.
Me, I can't be bothered with all that depressing religion stuff. I go to mass just like any good Italian girl, but it's mostly for Ma and Pop's sake. I don't do it for me, and I know Angelo doesn't care a whit about it. But Agnes ... she's got some pretty strong opinions about religion, but looks to me, every time she talks about St. Patrick's Church where her uncle's the priest, you'd think God lived in the house himself. Seems to me, the way she recalls going to the St. Patrick's school, you'd think she'd been a juvenile delinquent, being called into her uncle's office at the drop of a hat. Hopefully now she's an adult, she can make her own decisions. Just not the Balmoral man.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Collin Doherty: Defend your decision
“Well, Agnes,” said Father Doherty to his once-favorite niece, standing there in the aisle just this side of the narthex, “I’ve been expecting you. For years now.”
“Uncle Collin,” the young woman sobbed as she approached and fell into a pew, “I’m so lost and terrified.”
What am I supposed to do, Collin thought as he witnessed the pathetic sight, go over there and comfort her in spite of the sin she’s committed? He stood there, the challis of wine in his right hand, turning his head to glance at the crucifix behind him. Jesus had always guided him in crises like these – so he glanced at the sentinel, hoping against hope he could muster any sympathy for this prostrate woman before him.
He could not. The afternoon that had begun quietly in his study, leading to his preparation of the Saturday afternoon mass like he’d done for nearly forty years at this church, had led to this. It was like the death of a loved parent. You knew it would happen one day, but you never knew when or how.
Well, this was the when and how – for Agnes’s confession. He knew she’d come to him one day, seeking forgiveness for the grievous wrong she’d committed, how long ago? Eleven, twelve years? No, longer than that – when she’d first disobeyed him and Siobhan. His lovely sister, driven to leaving Philadelphia because of Agnes’s betrayal. How could he ever forgive her, knowing how she’d hurt his sister?
“Agnes, please stop that sobbing. Tell me what has brought you here. And tell me what led you to make the choices you made.”
“Uncle Collin,” the young woman sobbed as she approached and fell into a pew, “I’m so lost and terrified.”
What am I supposed to do, Collin thought as he witnessed the pathetic sight, go over there and comfort her in spite of the sin she’s committed? He stood there, the challis of wine in his right hand, turning his head to glance at the crucifix behind him. Jesus had always guided him in crises like these – so he glanced at the sentinel, hoping against hope he could muster any sympathy for this prostrate woman before him.
He could not. The afternoon that had begun quietly in his study, leading to his preparation of the Saturday afternoon mass like he’d done for nearly forty years at this church, had led to this. It was like the death of a loved parent. You knew it would happen one day, but you never knew when or how.
Well, this was the when and how – for Agnes’s confession. He knew she’d come to him one day, seeking forgiveness for the grievous wrong she’d committed, how long ago? Eleven, twelve years? No, longer than that – when she’d first disobeyed him and Siobhan. His lovely sister, driven to leaving Philadelphia because of Agnes’s betrayal. How could he ever forgive her, knowing how she’d hurt his sister?
“Agnes, please stop that sobbing. Tell me what has brought you here. And tell me what led you to make the choices you made.”
Friday, May 6, 2011
Gracie Honeywalker: Blue
I'd never seen no walls like ‘em. Dark blue wallpaper, even darker blue floral patterns in it. I put out my hand to touch, just like velvet they done felt. So smooth, so soft. And all the way up the ceiling, two floors, must be thirty feet high, I done thought. Got to stare in wonder. The floors, they got dark, shiny wood, so beautiful like a frozen lake. Just like the Ohio River in January, except dark brown instead of glassy gray. And the wide staircase going up who knows where. The banisters, they done match the floors, too.
“Young lady, you come on in here,” the light soprano voice done said to me, so I follow into the parlor. More blue wallpaper in here, the white lady sitting on the sofa wearing a cream-colored linen dress. She young, too, just not so young as me. Maybe seventeen, maybe eighteen.
“You’ll be my maid, Miss Gracie. You set yourself right down there on that stool. I’m going to give you the yarn. You hold that. That’s right, Miss Gracie.”
So I do what she tells me and it’s real nice in here. I done got promoted from the yard where I fed the chickens, now I come inside the house and be a maid for Miss Letty. She real pretty-like, got to say I like her. Maybe I should think again about what Larribee said out by the barn about the underground. Seems real nice here by Miss Letty’s side and her white dress. All these pretty colors around me.
“Young lady, you come on in here,” the light soprano voice done said to me, so I follow into the parlor. More blue wallpaper in here, the white lady sitting on the sofa wearing a cream-colored linen dress. She young, too, just not so young as me. Maybe seventeen, maybe eighteen.
“You’ll be my maid, Miss Gracie. You set yourself right down there on that stool. I’m going to give you the yarn. You hold that. That’s right, Miss Gracie.”
So I do what she tells me and it’s real nice in here. I done got promoted from the yard where I fed the chickens, now I come inside the house and be a maid for Miss Letty. She real pretty-like, got to say I like her. Maybe I should think again about what Larribee said out by the barn about the underground. Seems real nice here by Miss Letty’s side and her white dress. All these pretty colors around me.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Georgianna Balmoral: The bride, Princess Elizabeth Alexandra Mary
"Agnes, Brian, I'm so excited! Tomorrow's the big day. Princess Elizabeth Alexandra Mary is marrying Philip Mountbatten in the morning -- well, afternoon. I'm planning to wake up early and come down to the living room to listen to it on the radio. Care to join me?"
Agnes laughed. "Georgianna, you know full well I'm never awake before eight in the morning."
Brian snorted. "That's eleven for me. Enjoy the wedding. Do you think Grace and Harold will join you?"
Georgianna considered her grandchildren. "Grace will. She's not a whole lot younger than the princess -- fifteen! But Grace doesn't care a whit about his British heritage."
"Or his Irish," added Brian. "Isn't that right, Agnes?"
"The children are proud of their Balmoral and Limerick sides, Mr. Brian Larney."
Georgianna had to laugh. Living with her daughter-in-law and her piano teacher -- a homosexual at that, which to her surprise had proved so much fun, Georgianna had to abandon her Episcopalian pretensions and her martinis -- made her so happy. Agnes had her recitals, her differential equations, and her interminable indecisions. Brian had his quirky 8-year old piano students who came to the back music room while Georgianna made beef stew. Heaven on earth!
The princess intrigued her. She remembered, oh so well, when Elizabeth of York had been born, back in '26. Cornelius had been alive back then, everything so different from now -- their own house, the general store she and Cornelius had run, profitable and booming, Neil on the verge of marriage, Norman at the Philadelphia School of Design -- and now, twenty-one years later, Cornelius was six years dead and Norman -- four years dead. How she missed her younger son, even now. But at least she had his widow, her sweet daughter-in-law. And Norman's children -- darling Grace and Harold. Life moved forward and they all had their histories. Somewhat apart, somewhat together.
She looked at Agnes. Her marriage to Norman had been far from perfect -- something told her, though Agnes never had, Norman had been unfaithful to his wife. She didn't deserve it, Georgianna knew. She hoped Princess Elizabeth, if she and Philip Mountbatten were to have children, would never have to deal with that: having sons who were unfaithful to their wives and botched their marriages. She also hoped the princess had daughters-in-law as lovely and smart as her own Agnes was. Those were her prayers for the heiress presumptive.
Agnes laughed. "Georgianna, you know full well I'm never awake before eight in the morning."
Brian snorted. "That's eleven for me. Enjoy the wedding. Do you think Grace and Harold will join you?"
Georgianna considered her grandchildren. "Grace will. She's not a whole lot younger than the princess -- fifteen! But Grace doesn't care a whit about his British heritage."
"Or his Irish," added Brian. "Isn't that right, Agnes?"
"The children are proud of their Balmoral and Limerick sides, Mr. Brian Larney."
Georgianna had to laugh. Living with her daughter-in-law and her piano teacher -- a homosexual at that, which to her surprise had proved so much fun, Georgianna had to abandon her Episcopalian pretensions and her martinis -- made her so happy. Agnes had her recitals, her differential equations, and her interminable indecisions. Brian had his quirky 8-year old piano students who came to the back music room while Georgianna made beef stew. Heaven on earth!
The princess intrigued her. She remembered, oh so well, when Elizabeth of York had been born, back in '26. Cornelius had been alive back then, everything so different from now -- their own house, the general store she and Cornelius had run, profitable and booming, Neil on the verge of marriage, Norman at the Philadelphia School of Design -- and now, twenty-one years later, Cornelius was six years dead and Norman -- four years dead. How she missed her younger son, even now. But at least she had his widow, her sweet daughter-in-law. And Norman's children -- darling Grace and Harold. Life moved forward and they all had their histories. Somewhat apart, somewhat together.
She looked at Agnes. Her marriage to Norman had been far from perfect -- something told her, though Agnes never had, Norman had been unfaithful to his wife. She didn't deserve it, Georgianna knew. She hoped Princess Elizabeth, if she and Philip Mountbatten were to have children, would never have to deal with that: having sons who were unfaithful to their wives and botched their marriages. She also hoped the princess had daughters-in-law as lovely and smart as her own Agnes was. Those were her prayers for the heiress presumptive.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Annie Kate Limerick: An act of generosity
The gray charcoal of New York City molests me as we disembark at Ellis Island, my throat a parched sandpaper and my chest a rumbling sewer. I pray this cold does not turn to pneumonia. A cold rain pounds the pavement as we make our way from the dock up toward the city. Andrew holds a shoddy map of Manhattan and I follow him. I hold baby Martin in my hands, poor son, crying his lungs out, not even seven months old. I hope the second one arrives safe and sound. I’ve got another four months to go.
Andrew and I shuffle our way from the Battery toward Downtown toward the Village through Washington Square and onto Fifth Avenue. We stop to rest on a park bench, my cloth coat and my hat soaked all the way through. The greens, blues, and yellows of Ireland have no place here. This world of America is all black and gray with a touch of white and brown. I wonder how much longer our shoes will last. Can we make it to St. Patrick’s Cathedral and seek comfort there? That is another forty blocks, Andrew tells me.
We begin anew, walking more slowly this time. Busy horses and carriages splash mud on the street. We try to dodge them and I fall, but I cannot get up and no amount of prodding from Andrew can get me up. I think I’m dying and I will lose my second baby. Martin continues crying, Andrew starts to cry. We don’t know what to do.
A man comes out of a building with friends and after leaving them, he passes us and asks, “what seems to be the trouble?” He puts us in his open carriage and takes us uptown to his mansion. His wife comes out of the house and helps me inside. They lay us in an empty servant’s quarters and call their doctor, who is nursing me now.
The doctor tells me, I am very lucky. I have developed pneumonia but he thinks he can cure me before it is too late. He says I should be very grateful that George Tasker found us and rescued us, otherwise I would have died.
I dream of a day when I’m old, comfortable, and at peace., I’ll be sitting in an overstuffed chair, doing my knitting, giving advice to my grandchildren. When I talk to them about their problems, I’ll remind them that every problem has a George Tasker to help solve it. The only question they’ll need to ask themselves, who is their George and what form does he take?
Andrew and I shuffle our way from the Battery toward Downtown toward the Village through Washington Square and onto Fifth Avenue. We stop to rest on a park bench, my cloth coat and my hat soaked all the way through. The greens, blues, and yellows of Ireland have no place here. This world of America is all black and gray with a touch of white and brown. I wonder how much longer our shoes will last. Can we make it to St. Patrick’s Cathedral and seek comfort there? That is another forty blocks, Andrew tells me.
We begin anew, walking more slowly this time. Busy horses and carriages splash mud on the street. We try to dodge them and I fall, but I cannot get up and no amount of prodding from Andrew can get me up. I think I’m dying and I will lose my second baby. Martin continues crying, Andrew starts to cry. We don’t know what to do.
A man comes out of a building with friends and after leaving them, he passes us and asks, “what seems to be the trouble?” He puts us in his open carriage and takes us uptown to his mansion. His wife comes out of the house and helps me inside. They lay us in an empty servant’s quarters and call their doctor, who is nursing me now.
The doctor tells me, I am very lucky. I have developed pneumonia but he thinks he can cure me before it is too late. He says I should be very grateful that George Tasker found us and rescued us, otherwise I would have died.
I dream of a day when I’m old, comfortable, and at peace., I’ll be sitting in an overstuffed chair, doing my knitting, giving advice to my grandchildren. When I talk to them about their problems, I’ll remind them that every problem has a George Tasker to help solve it. The only question they’ll need to ask themselves, who is their George and what form does he take?
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Norman Balmoral: Comfort foods
The savory poultry scents of Thanksgiving, the nauseating sweetness of Halloween, the giddy nut-flavored aromas of Christmas, the melting chocolate of Easter, the roasting barbecue pits of Memorial Day, the succulent candies and desserts for July Fourth, and the luscious garden vegetables of Labor Day come to me when I think my youth in West Philadelphia.
Growing up along the Schuylkill River on the edge of Drexel University and the University of Pennsylvania, I remember Mother and Dad making the most of their annual traditions, all around the food my brother Neil and I ate in hearty abundance. The abundance came to an abrupt end after my college years, after my year in Italy, when I returned home to the Great Depression. After they lost the house and moved to the apartment on top of the pharmacy, the abundance became an abridgement.
All that’s past and all’s well that ends well, so they write. Mother and Dad moved out of the closet of an apartment they had, Agnes and I moved into our own home, and the abundant meals returned to our family’s tables. But time passes and bitter memories linger. Lying here on my cot in the barracks somewhere just outside of London, writing into my diary, I wonder what the purpose of the Depression was. So that we’d appreciate our wealth all the more? And what, then, is the purpose of this ghastly war?
Growing up along the Schuylkill River on the edge of Drexel University and the University of Pennsylvania, I remember Mother and Dad making the most of their annual traditions, all around the food my brother Neil and I ate in hearty abundance. The abundance came to an abrupt end after my college years, after my year in Italy, when I returned home to the Great Depression. After they lost the house and moved to the apartment on top of the pharmacy, the abundance became an abridgement.
All that’s past and all’s well that ends well, so they write. Mother and Dad moved out of the closet of an apartment they had, Agnes and I moved into our own home, and the abundant meals returned to our family’s tables. But time passes and bitter memories linger. Lying here on my cot in the barracks somewhere just outside of London, writing into my diary, I wonder what the purpose of the Depression was. So that we’d appreciate our wealth all the more? And what, then, is the purpose of this ghastly war?
Monday, May 2, 2011
Siobhan Limerick: It's gone
Siobhan ran around the house, looking for the locket. Where could it be? A lovely gold locket Martin had given her on their last anniversary, their final anniversary before he died thirteen years ago. She’d originally put a picture of Mama and Daddy, but after Martin died, she put his photo in it. The last she’d seen it, it lay on Agnes’s bureau in her third floor bedroom.
“Why on earth, do I have to have a headcold when I’m running around the house like this?” All day long Siobhan had been doing errands around the house – cleaning up after Annie Kate, making breakfast for Patrick before he went to the rectory, writing letters to parish women, organizing a Lenten breakfast for the church’s indigent members. Being the priest’s brother did make life complicated at times – too much work, she’d have to tell him, please ask Patrick to do it. It pleased Siobhan that Patrick had finally gone to work for his uncle.
Her mother-in-law was another matter. Annie Kate might be eighty and entirely self-reliant, but she loved to boss her around. Ever since Martin had died and Annie Kate had moved in, ostensibly to help care for Patrick and Agnes, Siobhan had felt like a servant in her own house. “Don’t burn the vegetables, don’t use a wet cloth on my piano, don’t put starch in with the underclothes, don’t, don’t, don’t …” had Siobhan running ragged more than twelve years now. Oh, mothers-in-law!
She had a sore throat, her head was stuffed, her neck glands swollen, and she had the chills. Oh, off to bed! She’d look for Martin’s locket tomorrow. She needed her rest.
“Siobhan,” Annie Kate trumpeted from her room, “come here and take my empty teacup down to the kitchen.”
It would never end.
“Why on earth, do I have to have a headcold when I’m running around the house like this?” All day long Siobhan had been doing errands around the house – cleaning up after Annie Kate, making breakfast for Patrick before he went to the rectory, writing letters to parish women, organizing a Lenten breakfast for the church’s indigent members. Being the priest’s brother did make life complicated at times – too much work, she’d have to tell him, please ask Patrick to do it. It pleased Siobhan that Patrick had finally gone to work for his uncle.
Her mother-in-law was another matter. Annie Kate might be eighty and entirely self-reliant, but she loved to boss her around. Ever since Martin had died and Annie Kate had moved in, ostensibly to help care for Patrick and Agnes, Siobhan had felt like a servant in her own house. “Don’t burn the vegetables, don’t use a wet cloth on my piano, don’t put starch in with the underclothes, don’t, don’t, don’t …” had Siobhan running ragged more than twelve years now. Oh, mothers-in-law!
She had a sore throat, her head was stuffed, her neck glands swollen, and she had the chills. Oh, off to bed! She’d look for Martin’s locket tomorrow. She needed her rest.
“Siobhan,” Annie Kate trumpeted from her room, “come here and take my empty teacup down to the kitchen.”
It would never end.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Georgianna Balmoral: The neck of her dress was cut straight across
Please note that I’ve now changed the character’s name from Victoria Balmoral to Georgianna Balmoral.
New Year’s Eve 1899 – how exciting for Georgianna and Evie. They arrived, separately, to the cotillion in their parents’ carriages. Georgianna boasted a heavy white and blue brocade dress, a small train behind her with a silver coronet, her mother’s engagement diamond in the center. Georgianna was proud of her narrow waist and how the dress showed it off to perfection.
She hoped Evie noticed. Her fair skin, dark hair, and blue eyes complemented Victoria’s blonde locks, brought into sharp display by the high neckline of her dress, cut straight across, throwing her face and jutting chin into stark display. They made a pretty pair, Georgianna Tasker and Evie Whitford.
“Darling, your dress is quite the picture of beauty,” Evie told her as they tallied their dance cards with names of eligible suitors such as Morgan, Bixler, Roosevelt, Whitney, and Astor. “You shall surely catch the eyes of all the young men here tonight.”
“It is not my wish to catch their eyes when I already have the eye of the one who matters,” she winked at her friend, dazzled by the smooth, fair beauty of her complexion.
“That is lovely of you to say, my lovely friend. Why, do look at Henry Winthrop! He is quite the handsome catch with his handlebar moustache.”
“I understand he has gone to the drink,” Georgianna replied, frowning. She had no interest in the foppish Winthrop. Where men were concerned, Georgianna preferred the quiet ones, those who squired a lady without much fuss.
But, she reflected, she much preferred her quiet evenins alone with Evie, their flights of fancy, late at night, when all the families had gone to bed and the two of them had retreated behind the lacy white curtains of Evie’s four-poster bed.
New Year’s Eve 1899 – how exciting for Georgianna and Evie. They arrived, separately, to the cotillion in their parents’ carriages. Georgianna boasted a heavy white and blue brocade dress, a small train behind her with a silver coronet, her mother’s engagement diamond in the center. Georgianna was proud of her narrow waist and how the dress showed it off to perfection.
She hoped Evie noticed. Her fair skin, dark hair, and blue eyes complemented Victoria’s blonde locks, brought into sharp display by the high neckline of her dress, cut straight across, throwing her face and jutting chin into stark display. They made a pretty pair, Georgianna Tasker and Evie Whitford.
“Darling, your dress is quite the picture of beauty,” Evie told her as they tallied their dance cards with names of eligible suitors such as Morgan, Bixler, Roosevelt, Whitney, and Astor. “You shall surely catch the eyes of all the young men here tonight.”
“It is not my wish to catch their eyes when I already have the eye of the one who matters,” she winked at her friend, dazzled by the smooth, fair beauty of her complexion.
“That is lovely of you to say, my lovely friend. Why, do look at Henry Winthrop! He is quite the handsome catch with his handlebar moustache.”
“I understand he has gone to the drink,” Georgianna replied, frowning. She had no interest in the foppish Winthrop. Where men were concerned, Georgianna preferred the quiet ones, those who squired a lady without much fuss.
But, she reflected, she much preferred her quiet evenins alone with Evie, their flights of fancy, late at night, when all the families had gone to bed and the two of them had retreated behind the lacy white curtains of Evie’s four-poster bed.
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